Today has been one of those days that most teachers only dream of. My class one, a bunch of little munchkins aged 6 who I worked with last year while they were in nursery were as always, amazing. I love them to bits. In fact I have almost run out of gold stars.

After class one, I move to class two, a class with some ‘interesting’ children in the mix. I have to admit in the past I have been rather big headed I have uttered the phrase “I enjoy a naughty child in my class… it is easy to teach good kids, but a real teacher, inspires and teaches the children who have problems” Well that came back to bite me didn’t it.

For a number of reasons, this weekend has been a difficult one, but on Sunday I found time to sit down with a glass of whisky and consider the past and the future…. Including life’s little problems. I have decided to make a number of changes to my life, and I have also decided to try something different with my disruptive student in Class two.

Fortunately, it worked, we had a fabulous lesson. You teachers out there know there isn’t one solution to a problem . At the end of the lesson I asked him for his diary / school planner, he looked mortified! Why? Because most teachers in the schools I work in, only send messages home that include words and phrases such as naughty, wont do as he/ she is told etc.

I decided to write, your son worked incredibly hard in my class, his behaviour was fantastic. The boy and I translated it into Italian. The hug he gave me was worth all the crap days I have had to deal with in this particular lesson. To celebrate I went to one… yes one of my favourite restaurants for lunch / afternoon.

They have a new waitress, she said, and I quote “ vuoiuninsalatamistaconiltuoroastbeef? I decided she had offered me mixed vegetables and so I said yes….

What arrived with my roast beef was a plate of mixed salad! Uffa! I decided it was obviously my fault, and was already trying to decided if it would block the toilet if I decided to dispose of them. High five to all you salad dodgers.

Pina, the owner arrived to say hi. Hi Peter. Wow che bravo, insalata!

Pina, it was a mistake, I thought she said vegetables not salad.

Pina laughed and said, she would change them for me, Bless her, I am fortunate to have some really good friends, and hopefully the child who I know has problems at home, will also come to see me as a friend.

Happy Monday to all my friends in bloggo land, I hope you Monday was as good as mine.

This blog is not known for being political or religious, although I am sure I could have a bit of fun with both. However I do try to be a good boy, sometimes.

While I am driving to school, I usually listen to the Today program on the good ole BBC radio 4. I especially love listening to the weather forecast as I put on my sunglasses ‘there will be scattered showers over most of the UK, especially Wales and later there may be some sunshine with some cloud cover’. It always brightens my day.

At the moment, the main topic in the news (I nearly mentioned Boris and Trump) is Chat GPT. I had no idea what it was, First thoughts were it is a new motor racing circuit. But it is nothing as interesting as that. It is one of those bots that you talk to when you telephone your bank or utility company normally when you have a problem and they don’t want to talk to you.. Maybe not your bank, but I am sure I am talking to one at my bank.

Anyway, Italy has officially banned their use in Bella Italia, Whoop Whoop Hooray. I am trying to find out who decided to ban them and why. I owe the person a drink. After a lot of research, my understanding is, they are liable to spread misinformation and lets be honest. Living in Italy is complicated enough, without misinformation to make it worse. Erm, my information probably came from….. a bot.

I think the final straw came when one bot, who shall remain nameless suggested Pineapple and Ham as a topping on Pizza is perfectly acceptable in Italy. Or Heinz canned Spag Bog is the staple diet of most Italian teenagers. I have to admit, I ate a lot of Heinz Spag Bog on toast in my youth. I even keep a couple of cans to prove to my students that Spag Bog in a can does exist. My students still don’t believe you can get freshly made pasta with a scrummy meaty sauce out of a can!!

I have enough trouble using my poor grasp of the Italian language with a real person, let alone a bot. Do they understand hand signals. Please tell me.

And a brief shout out to all you teachers who have been praying for Easter to arrive. I have never needed a holiday as bad as I need this one.

Happy Easter

I don’t normally use my blog to advertise anything, however. I have decided to organise a summer camp this June. Our first camp was in 2016, it was a modest but fun camp with two massive tents lent to me by the local civil protection.

24 hours before our 2018 camp, the local civil protection decided that they had forgotten about our camp. Strange as I had reminded them at the beginning of the month and a week before our camp. Mind you this is Italy and one expects the unexpected.

After a sleepless night, I chased around Decathlon buying up their stock of tents.

We make our camp a fun and safe environment where the children can not only learn English, but also learn lots of other skills, such as team building, how to screen print a T-Shirt or how to build a rocket propelled by vinegar and bicarbonate of soda.

And sometimes a trip to the bird sanctuary, which was absolutely amazing.

We are based in Asti in Italy camp dates 4th to 9th July, I am also helping to organise a camp in Bologna in June. So send your children to my camp and go and have a romantic week away with your loved one.

Camp details at English Summer Camp

You may remember that Santa left me 1 and a 1/2 tons of wet wood instead of a sexy woman or even a nice bottle of whisky. Amazingly wet wood burns, but you need to mix some dry wood with it to get it up to temperature.

Unfortunately, while I was carrying this wonderful wet wood into my house, I managed to get a wood splinter stuck deep into my finger. I tried the usual home remedies, such as sucking my finger, swearing under my breath and cursing the man who delivered the wet wood, all to no avail.

What I really wanted was a sexy nurse to nurse me back to health, splinter or no splinter.

Preferably not nurse Ratched.

My nurse arrived in the form of a friend from Turin who was coming over to drink some wine and eat my special shepherds pie. Armed with a safety pin, I couldn’t find a needle! She started open finger surgery. I closed my eyes and kept them closed even after she laughed at me. I am not very good at pain.

First she used a set of tweezers to try and find the offending splinter, I opened my eyes long enough to take this photo. The splinter was very deep so she attacked it with the safety pin.

Miss Irish, cause she is Irish, managed to dig out the dastardly splinter and post op, we drank several bottles of wine to kill the pain and trauma of the operation.

To finish, I have bought some gardening gloves to protect my fingers while I handle this wet wood that Santa left me, I need to try to pack away my Christmas lights so they are not tangled should there be a Christmas next year and I wish you all a Happy New Year.

Dear Father Christmas, what on earth went wrong this year? You are normally a pretty cool dude and I love the presents you normally leave under my Christmas tree. Admittedly some of the cooler presents arrived when I was younger. For example, the guns with the suckers was an excellent present.

Even if I only managed to play with them for a brief 30 seconds before they were confiscated and hidden in some dark cupboard or put in the loft for when I was older. However the look on my older sister’s face was priceless when the first and only shot from the pistol hit her on the forehead and stuck. The image still brings a smile to my face. My mum never gave me the pistols back, obviously she was waiting for me to become responsible enough to have them returned and I never reached that level of maturity. I bet they are still in my mum’s loft, with the purple clackers that were also confiscated.

I don’t normally write you letters, I usually rely on your discretion and hope you bring me something nice, like a nice malt whisky, of a crate of wine. You know I don’t need or want socks or scarfs or jumpers that I wouldn’t be seen dead in.

This year I wrote you a really nice letter, I told you I had been good, more or less. I even made promises that are going to be difficult to keep, (some I have already broken) and I asked for something specific to be left under my Christmas tree. I only wanted a wild woman, someone with a sense of humour, who liked wine and could tolerate this black sheep, and what did you leave me? one and a half tons of wet wood! How on earth did you mix up wild woman with wet wood?

Somewhere there is a man who was expecting, a load of wood and is frantically trying to explain to his wife, why there is a woman sitting under his Christmas tree drinking all the wine.

So please do me a favour and sort this little mistake out.

Best regards

Pecora (waiting for a wild woman) Nera

Christmas was going according to plan, school has finished and I thought, why not get out the decorations and make the house festive. On hindsight, I should have just opened a bottle of wine and watched a good movie.

Over an hour ago, I carefully carried my little box of Christmas decorations into my house, I gently removed the lights and laid them on the floor, they are still on the floor in a multitude of knots.

January 2020 I packed the lights away and I remember taking my time, so how come they were and still are tangled together? Are they annoyed that last year I gave up on Christmas and didn’t put them on my tree? And decided to spend 12 months tying themselves in knots!

Last year was a hard year and I didn’t feel very festive, so I dragged my little lemon tree into the apartment I was renting and stuck a few baubles on it. If last year, I had found the lights in knots, I would have thrown them out, this year I am a little more patient. (A little)

Will someone please explain to me how I should pack the lights away so they don’t tie themselves up, and please, how do I untangle them without breaking the bulbs or going crazy.

I have done a quick search on the internet and discovered I am not the only one who has this problem.

Speaking about Christmas light fails, there is a town in Germany that might want to rethink their Christmas lights, unless of course they had been sponsored by Victoria’s Secret..

I am going to wish you a safe and happy Christmas and after I have finished this glass of wine, I will have another go at untangling my Christmas lights or as a last resort, I might once again bring the lemon tree into the house and stick a few baubles onto it.

Last week, I realised my six year old students are much better at drawing than I am, it is a sad state of affairs when I am beaten by a class of six year olds. I love teaching Munchkins (little people) they are like sponges, they absorb everything and they behave impeccably for me. We were learning basic vocabulary for toys. As I drew each toy, the kids were making several guesses at to what I was attempting to draw..

Maria: It is a Teddy Bear.

Sara: Nah, It is scary

Mario: Could it be a doll.

Kids: Nah!

As you can see, my little students drawings are far superior.

During December I launch the ‘Design My Christmas Card Competition’. The competition is open to all the children from Class 5 (age 10) across the schools I work with. Normally I sit down with a glass of wine and with a couple of friends, we judge the cards and choose a winner, or this year, two winners. The winning cards are currently on display at my local bar. 200 of each have been printed so that I can give them to my friends and students in the schools.

This year I agreed to work with two nursery schools, to all nursery teachers.. how do you manage to keep your sanity and keep the munchkins engaged? I am only working with the nurseries until February and then I will need a long holiday..

Ok, I admit it, I love working with the little ones.

Unfortunately, one of the schools I work with has closed due to a Covid outbreak. The nursery that stayed open asked me to take a Covid test before this weeks lesson. Argh

I really hate Covid tests, and not only did they shove the swab so far up my nose that my ear started to itch, but I had to sit outside in the cold (minus 3 degrees) while they processed my test. Fortunatly I was negative.

Comfy chairs socially distanced in the cold…

I will leave you with my Snowman, as you can see my sculpturing prowess is about as good as my skill at drawing.

Last Wednesday was my birthday. It was an important birthday, because I have decided I am now officially old.

You can’t tell how old I am, because I have removed the candles. However, it is sufficient to say I am now old. Following my birthday I sat down with a glass of whisky and reviewed my life…

The conclusion I came too was, I am now old enough to have a badante (care giver).

In Italy it is almost a tradition to organise a badante for your parents. It is also much better than putting them in an old peoples home, which is also more expensive.

So now the search is on for a suitable badante,

Fortunately I am not as old as Jim, and like him, I want a badante who not only makes sure I am presentable in the morning, but I also have some euros in my top pocket for my glass of ‘medicinal’ wine at lunch time.

One of my friends has just informed me, that if I get a good lawyer, he will put a good case forward and the Italian state will pay for my badante. Happy Days

So while you in Bloggo Land and worrying about Brexit and Christmas, I am going to hot foot it down to the lawyers office and see what is possible.

It is that time of year again, the local schools have decided they need an English teacher. The concept of organising courses and teachers during June, ready for the start of the academic year in September, doesn’t happen in Bella Italia. Instead the Italians use the modern British manufacturing method of JIT ( Just In Time) or if we translate this back into Italian, it becomes NVO (Not very Organised).

Seven years ago I somehow found myself teaching rudimentary English to a class of nursery age children… Colours, numbers, animals etc. The one hour on a Friday morning scarred me so much that I swore I would never again agree to teach children under five.

A typical lesson at a nursery school starts with the teacher saying, “Buon Giorno” and then she quickly beats a hasty retreat to the biscuit cupboard and leaves me with a dozen sticky kids.

Me holding a yellow pen: Yellow

Sticky Child 1: Giallo

Me: Yellow

Sticky Child: Lellow

Me: YELLOW!

Sticky Child 2: RED!!!

ME: Riccardo, please take your finger out of your nose.

In my experience, all naughty boys are called either Riccardo or Edoardo. Honest!

Sticky Child 2: Yellow

Me: Riccardo, please take your finger out of Maria’s nose.

Me holding a Purple pen and turning to sticky child number 3: What colour is it?

Sticky Child 3: PURPLE!

And that is the moment when I realise why I love teaching children. (excluding children aged between three and five and any child named Riccardo or Edoardo)

As I glow in my own self satisfaction, I glance at Riccardo and as my bubble bursts, I quickly beg him not to eat what is currently on the end of his sticky finger.

Riccardos and Edoardos out for a walk

Since 2014 I have been teaching in the same six junior schools. I will admit, it is the most enjoyable job I have ever had, with the exclusion of teaching nursery kids and ……Riccardos.

Following COVID I lost all my teaching as we went into a long lockdown, had I not managed to sell my house in the UK and used the proceeds to feed myself and clothe myself, I would have been in a pickle, and so after almost two years of unemployment imposed holiday, I accepted four hours a week at a nursery, teaching sticky 3 to 5 year olds, I know, I never learn from my mistakes and thank God! two junior schools, with the possibility of another.

On Tuesday in a little hill top school, I had a group of three and four year olds singing Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, we were stood in a circle going through the actions and accompanied by a little three year old who would stop crying long enough to shout MAMA DIA.

Mama Dia was her abbreviation for, Mum, please come and pick me up, I hate English, I hate this stupid Englishman and I want to go home. In all honesty, it reminded me of my own school days, when I screamed the same things in between floods of tears.

Today is Wednesday, the hardest day of my week. It started with a class of twenty four 10 year olds. This was my second lesson with them and they now understand that we can have fun if they behave. Last week I gave them some homework that I said was not obligatory, they could do it, if they wanted. All but three children produced some work. I read out their work and made the necessary noises of approval.

During the two hours of nursery school (I have to admit it is the most tiring job possible and should be well paid) A little girl of four looked up at me and said in a tiny voice, “voglio un fazzoletto” as my little tired brain translated this into I want a tissue, she basically exploded, or at least the snot and bogies exploded from her nose. I still have no idea how her little nose could produce so much mess in such a small time.

If Covid is spread by nasal mucus, I am doomed to die, Green Pass and vaccination or not….. I think it was harder to clean up the table, me and four kids than the Exxon Valdez disaster.

Tomorrow is Thursday and I have a relatively easy day, A couple of private English lessons in the morning and a couple in the afternoon. Friday, I have the joy of teaching one of my favourite students, even if her dog has on one occasion sank its teeth into my bum. Something that is worth a blog post all on its own…

A final thought, children are our future and the only way to get inspirational teachers into the classroom is to pay them a decent salary. And that starts with nursery teachers…

By now you know my sense of humour isn’t exactly, normal.  I have no idea why this is. Grab a drink tea, coffee or preferably wine and come a little closer and I will tell you when I was asked to translate a conversation for a friend.

Now you guys know my Italian language skills are pretty dismal. But under the right conditions, maybe a couple of glasses of wine,  I can sometimes even surprise myself. It was eight o’ clock in the evening and I had just finished giving an English lesson to a group of friends. As I drove away in my little blue Mini, I received a voice message from the wife.

I am going to bed, your dinner is in the dog oven.

I turned my car around and headed back up the hill to La Chance, one of my favourite wine bars owned by Edo, who is a bit of a character and his selection of wine is fantastic.

Edo, Cocktail maker, friend and a brilliant chef

I was just about to order food, when Edo invited me to stay and eat with the staff, so I settled down with my wine and started to laugh and have fun with the staff there was also an Irishman who was in Gabbiano looking for work!  Which is strange because Gabbiano is a little hill town, most people leave Gabbiano to find work.

The cook who works at La Chance is a big fellow and to be honest a little scary looking, I always think he looks like a huge KGB hitman, on the plus side he is a talented chef.

He may be nice, but he is really scary looking.

The chef, believe it or not, is twice as scary as the photo I pinched from the net.

It is now two-thirty in the morning and we are just finishing the deserts and I have a nice glass of Spanish wine in front of me, who would have guessed Spanish wine could be so good.

I have spent the evening laughing and joking with these guys and suddenly the chef leans across the table and catches me like a deer caught in a cars headlights and then he asks “Pecora Nera, can you translate for me, I want to ask the Irishman a question?”

Now I know, I should have laughed and declined, or called Edo over who was in the kitchen, but, well I was drinking wine and….

Sure, tell me?

Ask him why he has moved here.

So as the chef cast his stare on the Irish man. I turned to my new friend and said, The Chef says you have really nice legs.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

The Irishman was struck dumb for a few seconds, he managed to tear his eyes away from the chef, who incidentally was watching him quite intently, he turned to me and said.

I am not like that.

How I didn’t snort my wine all over the table I will never know, I shrugged my shoulders and told the chef he is here for work.

The chef looked at me, and said, tell him there is no work here.

My translation, from Italian to English went something like , The Chef says he can teach you.

Sorry I had to use this one

The look on the irishman’s face was priceless, the chef followed up his previous question, by looking at the waitress and asking if she knew of any jobs.

This was obviously translated into, The chef says your legs are almost as nice as the waitresses, and then Edo leaned over and refilled my glass. His English is pretty good and he caught my latest bit of translation.

Pecora Nera!!!!! Be good.

The Irishman looked at me, and then I lost it, I collapsed into laughter, I had to put my glass down before I spilled it. Fortunately, when I came clean and explained my little error in translating, both the the chef and Irishman thought it was funny. Although I haven’t seen the Irishman around in a long time.

The day started off much like any other.

I went to the bar for a cappuccino and sat down with my laptop to catch up with some work.

Midway through my second cappuccino I received a message from one of my favourite students, cancelling her lesson because she was sick, and just so I believed her, she had included a photo of her thermometer.

Yup, A little poorly

The day was turning out to be a nice relaxing day.

Just after midday I returned home to get my study ready for a couple of students.

As I drove in my drive, I noticed an envelope in the mail box. Not many people write to me, so I didn’t pay it much attention.

After opening the house, I decided to empty the kitchen rubbish into the outside bin, which is located close to the mail box.

Just out of curiosity, I peeked into the mailbox and saw a strange yellow letter. Hmm! The hairs on my neck had already started to stand up, even before I had fully translated this little innocuous letter of doom. In fact as I read and understood the word ‘disconnected’, I could smell the smell of fear.

Just a little scared

It appears I had ignored the water bill for far too long (and so had Mrs Sensible, but I won’t mention that).

Having the water disconnected created two very significant problems

1) Mrs Sensible would probably kill me

2) Mrs Sensible would probably kill me

There were very unclear instructions on how to pay the bill.

By Bacs and then fax a copy of the payment to the office. Sorry Fax!!!! Do people really still use fax machines??

I remember these, vaguely

Paying the bill at the local post office, Ha ha ha ha! NO!

Italy at its worse

Paying the bill in person at the head office. Hmm, maybe while I was at the office I could charm them into reconnecting me before Mrs Sensible returns from school and tries to kill me.

Thanks to the talented MM at http://www.multifariousmeanderings.wordpress.com

My lazy, relaxed Wednesday had suddenly turned into a race against time.

I had precisely two and a half hours to not only drive to Moncalvo (30 minutes away) convince them to reconnect me before Mrs Sensible returned home from school.

Remember this is Italy, the land of three hour lunch breaks and  then get home (another 30 minutes) and start hiding the kitchen knives.

A little 3 hour snack

I parked in the main square and ran to the office, a good heart stopping 8 minutes away.

As I entered the office, which was fortunately empty of customers. I spotted two office type workers chatting.

Now I wanted to be super polite, remember, I needed these women to agree to try and reconnect the water before Mrs S returned home.

10 minutes they stood there chatting, I timed them.

Mega Stress

Finally it started, a women in high fashion jeans and wearing more jewellery than the Great Hatton Garden Heist jewel thieves escaped with, turned to me and said:

Tell me.

Please, I pay this money or this money. I said pointing at two different amounts on the snotty letter of demand.

Have you taken a ticket she asked?

Let me explain, because Italians are incapable of queuing, there are little machines where you can take a ticket.

Ticket?

Yes the machine outside the office!

I was just about to point out how futile it was to take a ticket from outside, especially as I was the only customer in the office! When I remembered, I had to be very charming if I had any hope of reconnecting the water before Mrs S returned home.

I was as nice as nice could be

The ticket machine had numerous options and I very nearly took one of each, I use this technique at the local hospital.

Sticking my head back in the office, I asked which colour!

Any it doesn’t matter.

Maybe, just maybe, she glimpsed my thoughts as I looked at her a second too long.

I returned with a random ticket, which she ignored when I tried to give it her,

As much use as a chocolate fireguard

I once again asked her which amount on the letter I needed to pay.

Both!

Ahhhhh!

I removed several hundred euros from my wallet and tried to passed them through to her.

She looked at the bill,

Who is Mrs Sensible?

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, I was thinking, should I say, you will read about her in the papers after she has killed me?

Instead I said my wife, and in English I added, and at this rate probably not for much longer.

And this is your address?She asked pointing to my address.

No it’s a strangers I thought, I like paying other peoples bills.

I nodded, I didn’t trust my voice.

We only take payments in the morning!

Doomed

Sometimes, I even manage to amaze myself with how calm I can be when I really want to throttle somebody.

A very nice and normal woman, who had been filing other people’s snotty letters, looked at me and must have felt pity for me.

Help me, please

Come here, she said, I will deal with it.

I think my sigh of relief could be heard three offices away.

She not only dealt with the payment but while I was using google translate to create a nice thank you for her, using words like courtesy, life saver and you might have helped me to live to drink another glass of wine, she phoned the local engineer to reconnect the water!!!!

Saved

Racing home I phoned a good friend of mine, listen I need a big favour, Mrs S finishes work in 30 mins. Please invite her over for a coffee.

Ate you organising a surprise for her?

Erh, not quite.

I would love to help, but I am not at home until later.

Ahhhhggghhh!

Pleaseeeee!

Unbelievably a little man was already in my garden playing with his tools. and water was once more gurgling through my house.

Mrs S arrived some two and a half hours after the engineer had left, she was late home and so far she is non the wiser

Tonight I will check to see if we have an overdue gas or electric bill.

But first I need a glass of wine to steady my nerves.

Many years ago I visited a friends house and he had an indoor pool! It wasn’t a big pool, but it was still a pool. I have always dreamt of having a pool in the house or in the garden. Obviously garden swimming pools are a bit useless in the UK, probably there are only 20 days when the water would be warm enough so you don’t die of hyperthermia. And those 20 days would be spread over 5 or 6 years.

My first attempt at a garden swimming pool

Two years ago a friend and his little daughter came for a barbecue, he brought a kids paddling pool with him. It was a little small, but it was still a pool in my garden. I was so impressed I posted the picture on my facebook page. Sorry about my white legs, even after years of living here, my legs remain white, in fact they are so white, they have a blueish tinge.

The other thing I thought would be nice in my garden was a little garden stream, a brook gurgling pleasantly down the garden. with some minnows and maybe even a frog or two. We can but dream can’t we.

There is an old Chinese proverb, Be careful what you wish for lest it comes true. 

Ha blacksheep, I have wisdom for you.

This week two of my wishes came true, first a indoor swimming pool was installed and three days later not only did I have a funky shaped swimming pool in my garden, but a little gurgling stream. You may think life is looking up, Ol’e Pecora Nera has come into money!!!

Not quite. First it rained for 15 solid days. It was so bad, the cats wouldn’t cross the garden from their little house to mine, maybe cats aren’t very good at swimming. Ok Susie Stupid Pussy Cat sat out in the rain, but then she is one peculiar cat.

The leaking valve

This is the leaking valve that kindly installed the indoor swimming pool in my bathroom, Mrs Sensible’s bathroom is bone dry. Getting out of bed I headed for the bathroom, bleary eyed I open the bathroom door and nearly had to complete a swallow dive followed by a single back flip as I skidded across the bathroom..   Uttering a single yyyyeeeeoooooowwwwwlll.

Followed by a couple of unprintable words.

I spent ages mopping the floor, there were some more unprintable words when I skidded, artistically across the floor with the mop in one hand and knocked the bucket over. I have written to the Olympic committee to suggest mop dancing should be added to the 2020 Tokyo games.

Two days later the garden swimming pool was installed

A little pool

Do not be deceived, it is deeper than it looks. The surrounding mud is a treacherous bog. When we can’t find one of the cats, I go searching in the mud and and newly installed pool with a long stick.

Near the garden pool there is a cute stream. No minnows no frogs, I think they were swept away with the grass and some of the top soil, maybe if I go down to the bottom of the garden I might find them with a slightly damp stray Tom Cat that was  trying to woo Mishmash earlier this week.

Once upon a time there was grass and top soil here

The roaring torrent of a river has gone and so has the grass and top soil. Now you think this post is over don’t you, it almost is.

When I went down into the cantina to switch off the water, so that I could change the faulty valve in the bathroom, guess what I found?

Yes you guessed.

Ok, why not lets have an underground swimming pool

The cellar was slowly filling up with water. The water is leaking through the walls!!!

Admittedly it doesn’t look too bad yet. But at the time of writing this, it is rising. Without the little pump, we could have a big problem.

So there we go, I wished for a swimming pool and received three ,complete with a little river.

Happy days

Once again I have completely mangled the beautiful but difficult Italian language.

This morning I stopped at a bar with Mrs Sensible, I ordered a spumante and received a frosty look from Mrs S.

Spumante! at 9 O’clock in the morning!

Yes I love one in the morning, it’s full of vitamins.

Spumante!!!

Just as I started to go through my mental dictionary of Italian words and phrases, this normally doesn’t take too long. A glass of prosecco arrived in front of me and my wife raised an eyebrow.

Better than orange juice

But I ordered freshly squeezed orange juice, didn’t I?

No you ordered Spumante (Prosecco) not Spremuta (freshly squeezed orange juice)

It was still a good way to start a day.

Do I need to tell you about ordering Minced dog (Cane) instead of minced meat (Carne) at the local butcher? The poor woman stood there looking at me with big round eyes and her mouth hanging open, until her husband stepped in and solved the problem by mooing and barking.

Yes moo moo half a kilo of moo moo

I still have to stop and think when I want to say egg or grape, one is uova and the other is uva. At the moment I can’t remember which is which.

But try asking for six grapes at the corner shop, or try explain how you spent the morning collecting eggs so your friend could make some wine.

Uova treading or is it uva?

Speaking of the corner shop, I once asked for five fish pesche instead of five peaches pesce, Maria came back with fish fingers, dried fish, frozen fish and asked me which I wanted, I was a little perplexed we both thought each other was related to the village idiot, while I was stood pointing at some peaches in the corner of the shop with the sign don’t touch!

Another word to be especially careful of is year (anno) it must be pronounced with a double sounding n. Just to be sure, I normally add a couple more n’s for example: annnnnno, otherwise it might come out sounding as ano. How can I politely explain what ano is on my blog? Hmm, may I suggest you go over to google translate and tap ano in. 🤪

Oh let me finish off with my all time favourite.

One Christmas I asked for una bottiglia di prosciutto. Prosciutto is ham and prosecco is fizzy plonk.

I’m sure you guys also know words that have caused you problems, feel free to add them in the comments

It started with a trip to the local supermarket.

After the young girl blipped my wine, cheese and crisps. She asked me if I had my pensioner discount card.

I politely asked her to repeat her question. It sometimes takes two or three attempts for me to translate Italian to English and even then I can make some fantastic mistakes and misunderstandings and confusion follow.

Do I have my pensioner discount card?

I quickly looked over my shoulder to see which old man she was talking to.

Never too old for flip flops

And then today I received this delightful E mail

Don’t need you for another 40+ years

I send them a very polite E mail.

Dear sir,

Thank you for your kind E mail, however the cost of my funeral will be the least of my worries when I die.

May I suggest you contact my wife, Mrs Sensible. She is the worrier in our family.

Kind regards

Pecora (feeling remarkably healthy) Nera

I wonder if they will reply.

On a happier note, at my birthday party last week, we had a barbecue, drank lots of wine, sang and generally had a good time.

Visiting my doctor always fills me with joy,

Today there is a new notice on the door for me to try to translate.

Quickly I ran through the days of the week and worked out today is Giovedì, wonderful the good doctor has yet again changed his surgery days.

Just as I was about to leave I decided to ask an old guy if the doctor was coming this morning.

Although my Italian is not progressing as fast as Mrs Sensible would like, I can normally have a simple conversation with the natives. If we are discussing wine, all the better.

Today’s conversation was a little more challenging, the man in the waiting room was not wearing his gnashers!

Please put your gnashers in

He gummed his way through a sentence and I squinted and furrowed my brow in a pitiful attempt to understand him.

It took three attempts before I understood.

My question was.

Is the doctor here today?

And his response was.

You used to live in our village, why don’t you change doctors, or isn’t there a doctor in your new village?

I tried to explain that changing doctors is way too complicated and we like our doctor.

Lord help me to understand him

And then a woman appeared and joined in our conversation, as you can see, she was also struggling to understand my new friend.

Between us, we worked out the new sign wasn’t important and the doctor would arrive at 10:30 The time now is 9:00.

As I have some time to kill, let me share one of our doctors favourite notices.

Underlined in pink, orange and green

Twenty minutes before the surgery is due to close, the doctor counts how many patients he needs to see and then he locks the front door to stop any more patients from entering the waiting room.

This normally works, unless the person outside has a friend inside who will quickly and quietly unlock the door and let him in.

The next time the doctor enters the waiting room there will be a sea of innocent faces and one new patient who appears to be studying his shoes. To date I have never seen our doctor confront the new patient or complain, he just sighs and re locks the door.

Thursday evenings surgery is only for people who work and can’t visit during during normal surgery hours.

A couple of months ago there was a little dispute between the patients when on a Thursday evening a non worker was sat with us workers.

You don’t work!

My wife does!

But she isn’t here.

Obviously she isn’t here, because I am.

But you don’t work, why don’t you come in the morning, Thursday evening is for people who have to go to work.

Because I want a new prescription for my wife and she does work so I am here.

There was a little logic in his reasoning, nobody was happy about a non worker sharing the surgery with us, even if his wife did work.

Oh, on a final note a friend of mine has started going to night school to improve her Italian and she has hinted once or twice ‘normally when Mrs Sensible is within earshot’, that I should also go.

So far I have managed to avoid joining the night class, but I think it is only a matter of time before I end up sitting at the back of the class waiting for the lesson to finish.

I am writing this post from the safety of my mother in laws bathroom, the length of this post will be determined by how soon they notice I am missing.

Yup, I am in hiding

First a little background, every year in June I send Mrs Sensible south on Easyjet to her mothers and I drive down during August.

We stay with her mum and dad and use their small bedroom as a basecamp, a place for our bags, laptops and anything we purchase to bring home.

Cheese Wine Olive oil Wine

Mrs Sensible’s mum is not very well, so Mrs S has spent most of the holiday caring for her. Earlier this year the family employed a badante (care giver) to help care for my mother in law and to help clean the house.

Yesterday while we were changing in the little bedroom, Mrs Sensible was huffing and sighing. She told me our little bedroom was untidy and we should straighten it up.

Has your dad complained?

I will tell you later, she whispered to me.

Very quickly I collected up various phone chargers, put my laptop away etc etc and we went down to the village for granita and brioche.

Mmmm chocolate cakes

Mrs Sensible told me the badante had mentioned our little bedroom (base camp) was a little untidy.

I nearly choked on my cappuccino.

What did you say to her?

Nothing.

Hmm! wait till I see her.

I was given strict instructions not to mention anything to her, especially using my wonderful self taught Italian. Actually self taught is not strictly true, the little children I teach in the schools, have been helping me improve my Italian.

As soon as I returned to the house I obviously made sure the little bedroom looked like five children had just finished playing in the room.

I scattered phone chargers and books everywhere

Each morning the badante also moves things around the house, it is really weird.

The tea pot on the dresser is sometimes on the left and sometimes on the right, it is like sharing the house with a poltergeist.

Spooky

For the past 14 years the dining table has only had a simple cloth and maybe a vase on it.

How it should look

Now it looks like chaos.

Chaos

Even a container of pencils have been added to give it a homey touch.

I asked Mrs Sensible why she was keeping quiet about the antics of the badante, after all I am yet to find someone Mrs Sensible is scared of, even if the badante does look like Mrs Trunchbull.

The Badante

I was informed the woman was leaving at the end of the week.

Hopefully the poltergeist will go with her and I won’t have to move a giraffe, tube of pencils and three ornaments every time I want to use the table to play Scopa with my father in law.

I teach little Italian children English, I may be allergic to the little blighters, but I do try and teach them. This year I taught at my usual schools and I was asked to teach a small group of 5 year olds, when I arrived for the first lesson the group consisted of 24 kids and their ages ranged from 3 to 5. Three of the children needed special needs teachers and one of the special needs teachers needed medicating or some sort of psychiatric help.

Anyway, I survived the school year and I received a text message notifying me that I could collect my wages from the Banca Popolare di Milano and it is next to the pizzaria. So I drove to the village and found the pizzaria, next to it was the CPA bank.

Bank of Milan????

Hmm! I drove once more through the village, and then a second time. Finally I was just about to text the school and ask them if they had made a mistake when a man walked past my car.

Once again I tried to have a civilised conversation in Italian, using my limited vocabulary and dreadful grammar.

ME, Excuse me bad English, I look Bank Milano.

Man: It is there. (he was pointing at the Bank of CRA)

ME: There? No I need Bank Milano, no Bank CRA

Man: A while ago, the bank was bought out by the Bank of Milan and they haven’t changed the signs yet. We all know it is the Bank of Milan so it isn’t a problem.

The only part of the conversation I understood was, Bank Milano Problem…

ME: What?

Man: Bank Milano THERE!!!

Obviously I was asking directions from the village idiot. I thought I might have better luck from someone inside the bank.

Me: Good Morning (perfect Italian, but with a hint of an English accent)

Me: Where the Bank Milano Please.

Woman: Here.

It was at this point the earlier conversation with the ‘village idiot’ started to make sense.

I gave the woman my driving licence as proof of identity and told her I was there to collect payment from the local school.

Please don’t ask me why the school didn’t just transfer the money to my account. Because I have no idea. I did feel rich as the woman counted out my wages for the past six months and slid the small bundle across the counter.

To celebrate I called in at the Ristorante Italia and ordered a meal. Maurizio the owner, poured me a glass of red wine and sat at my table. Two plates appeared and then food and more food.

This is carne crudo (raw meat seasoned with lemon) served with lots of black truffle.

After several courses and a couple of glasses of wine, the bank phoned me.

Mr Grey, your driving licence has expired, bye bye.

I took out my wallet and Maurizio and I examined my out of date licence. This was not good news, for the past 3 months I had been driving with an expired licence and been stopped twice by the Carabinieri (I don’t think the carabinieri can read and wouldn’t have spotted the error) . Also I would have to go and see Mr Cretino and ask him to renew the licence. I remember the pain of dealing with him when I swapped my UK licence to an Italian one.

I asked for the bill. Maurizio refused to provide one, the meal was on him. (One of the privileges of teaching English to the local Restauranteur) maybe today would be so bad.

My old UK driving Licence

Forty minutes later I was standing in Mr Cretino’s office.

Mr Cretino: The doctor is in today, if you have your medical, we can give you your new licence in 10 minutes.

Hmm! More like 10 months… it took 9 month when he transfer my UK licence to an Italian one.

As I climbed the stairs to see the doctor, I remembered I was wearing contact lens and they are not as strong as my glasses, at the moment my glasses are at the bottom of a drawer after I dropped them and some twit stood on them. But hey ho the eye test only takes 3 minutes and I was sure I could pass it.

The big problem with Italian eye tests, is you need to not only be able to see the letters, you need to know them. For example an H is not an H it is cappa!!! Y doesn’t exist but when it does exist it is called ipsilon. And the vowels are a nightmare to remember.

1. A—sounds like a in father
2. E—has two sounds: short vowel like e in pen; long vowel, similar to ai in fair
3. I—sounds like ea in tea
4. O—has two sounds: like o in cozy
5. U—sounds like u in rude

I becomes E, E becomes A and I become confused.

What I really needed was this type of eye test.

My type of eye test

Although I have no idea what an acorn is in Italian, or what the spaceship thing in between the coat and the umbrella is. My right eye was pretty good, I was quite impressed with my sight and pronunciation of the letters. However my left eye might as well been with my glasses in the drawer at home.

Blind as a bat

My first thought was, where has the chart gone, and slowly as I strained I managed to see some of the letters, notably the E which is an AE and the H which is cappa.

The doctor asked me if I wore glasses, I said yes but they are in the drawer, I am using, contact lens. I don’t think he understood me. He told me I MUST wear glasses and he was reducing my vehicles down to just a car. I would loose the ability to drive mini buses and trucks.

I said I would go and buy some new glasses and would return for a second exam, I don’t think he was over impresses with having to sit through another test with me.

The dog wearing my new glasses

Mr Cretino didn’t take 10 minutes to create my new licence, he took 4 days. 4 days was pretty outstanding for Mr Cretino, and they must have decided it was to complicated to reduce the vehicles I can drive, because they didn’t eliminate any, in fact they added the motor bike onto my licence.  Maybe I should buy a motorbike. Beep Beep.

Mario, please take your finger out of your nose.

Eduardo, please sit down.

Mario, take your finger out of Giuseppe’s nose.

Eduardo, please sit down!

Maria, stop kissing Daniele, I don’t think he really likes it.

Eduardo, Sit Down!

Mario!!!! Please don’t eat it….

And so began my first lesson teaching a class of seventeen 4 & 5 year olds.

After one hour I was utterly exhausted and needed a stiff grappa to get me through the rest of the day.

I regularly teach English to children aged between 8 and 12, and it is normally great fun, I even have two classes of 6 year olds but the difference between a 6 year old and a 5 year old is astonishing.

In two seconds flat they can close their eyes and fall into a deep slumber right before my eyes….

Claudia, count to ten. 1… 2 …. 3 ….5……6 …..Zzzzzz

Teaching children has certainly changed since I was a chilblain, I vividly remember how adept my teacher was with the use of the ruler on a set of knuckles or how Mr Fearn could silence a class for the whole year by simply slippering one child on the first day of term.

I get a real buzz from teaching children (with the exclusion of children who eat their own bogies).

A couple of weeks ago I was writing a sentence on the blackboard, as I took a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure the kids were behaving I managed to catch a little six year old girl licking the top of her desk!!!

My tummy flipped twice, I looked at her and wagged my finger, she stared at me with big blue eyes and her tongue still hanging out… Bless her

At the moment I am gearing up for our English Summer Camp. Over a period of two weeks 46 children will descend on our house and sleep in two massive tents that have been provided by the local civil protection service.

Last year was our first year and we started off with 29 children over the two weeks…

Hopefully this year the kids will have as much fun.